Ma'am
by Pisces
Summary: Helena was pissed extremely , and she was extremely pissed at the Question.


_**Ma'am**_

_Rating: K+  
Disclaimer: copyright, DC  
Notes: Now Helena was demanding to talk. Poor Ollie, I'll get back to you in just a little bit. And I might do another chapter of this from Captain Atom's POV. Or I might not._

Helena Bertinelli was a woman who knew what she wanted, and wasn't afraid to let others know it. Helena Bertinelli was (very) passionate, she was (highly) possessive, she was (overly) protective, she was many things that started with the letter 'p'. But mostly, at that very moment, she was pissed (extremely).

They were kicking her out of the Watchtower.

Oh, she knew it was going to happen eventually. She wasn't a League member anymore, and the mere fact that she previously _had_ been - and then forcibly removed - made tensions between her and some of the Watchtower's occupants more strained then if she had simply been a stranger.

But it had barely been three days. _Three days._ The Watchtower's infrastructure was still heavily damaged, entire areas were quarantined off, with a constant stream of material and people coming and going via teleportation or Javelin. And there she had stood, surrounded by this chaos, staring at the impassive and alien face of J'onn J'onzz as he told her to pack up her stuff and get the fuck out. Perhaps in not so many words, but that hadn't mattered to Helena right at that moment, because she was (exceedingly) not pleased.

Not because of J'onn, no, though the vague feeling of displeasure and deja vu could have easily been sharpened and directed if it hadn't been overwhelmed by a much stronger force. No, J'onn wasn't the target of her anger.

Helena was pissed (extremely), and she was (extremely) pissed at the Question.

Helena's anger was an equal opportunist, and just because she (might, possibly, one day) loved someone didn't mean she wouldn't strangle them in their sleep.

To be fair, she was partially at fault. Her man might be bedridden, conscious only half the time, and suffering from a tenacious fever, but that didn't mean he was any less resourceful. And so when she had made an offhand comment – 'Q dearest, did you know that if I miss one more day of work I'll get fired? Yeah, I used up the last of my available sick days tracking you down after you ran off, _alone_, and managed to get yourself captured by an evil shadow branch of the government. By the way, did I mention that you're never leaving my sight again?' (paraphrased, of course) - she _should _have realized that wasn't going to be the end of it. Instead, it had triggered a day-long, strangely passive-aggressive argument. He was passive, she was aggressive. He wanted her to go back to Gotham to make sure her financial future was secure. She wanted to stay directly at his bedside and continue growling off anyone who looked even vaguely threatening.

After her piqued, purposeful strides had taken her back to the infirmary wing (ever so familiar after the previous three days – only three days!), Helena found herself gazing down at Question's unconscious and beaten face, and she wondered how one man could make her feel so many things, so strongly, all at once. She reached down, and didn't recognize the tenderness that guided her hand in brushing orange hair away from a too warm forehead. It wasn't like her. _This_ wasn't like her. And she was still very, very scared.

"You idiot." She whispered, pissed at herself for not yelling and wishing he was awake so that she could keep her emotions burning. "You got J'onn to kick me off the Watchtower, didn't you?"

"I don't think he likes to loose, ma'am."

The soft Texan twang dissolved Helena's self-imposed illusion of solitude. "Not many up here do." She tilted her head just far enough to effectively project her glare onto the occupied bed on the other side of the room. Her hand ghosted down the side of Question's face to clutch at the sweat-soaked sleeve of his hospital gown. "And I thought I said I wasn't talking to you. Again. Ever."

"I know that, ma'am."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

"He wanted me to let you know. Ma'am."

Helena fell into the bedside chair (_Her_ chair. Her name might not be on it, but her butt print felt like it should be permanently ingrained in the foam padding.), forehead resting on arms folded upon the stiff infirmary mattress. "He's such an asshole," she muttered into the starchy, white sheets.

She smelled medicine, and sterile, and fabric softener as she breathed in deeply through her nose. But underneath all that, most importantly, she smelled _him_. It reminded her of dark things, broken things, adorably oblivious things, affectionate things, frighteningly intelligent things, the _truth_ of things. She held that breath - her hand groping blindly to latch onto his, limp beneath her tight, possessive fingers - and released it in a long, shaky stream. "Did he ever explain why he doesn't hate you?"

"Yes, ma'am. He said something about the letter A, and human nature, and... Truthfully, ma'am, I... don't think he was fully conscious at the time."

"Sounds about right." Helena gently rubbed her thumb across the knobby plane of Question's knuckles. (Helena Bertinelli could do gentle, if it was important enough.) She turned her head, cheek resting on her forearm now, and finally looked directly at Captain Atom. "You know I'm never going to forgive you. You know that, right?"

"...Yes, ma'am. I know."

Helena didn't quite understand why Captain Atom was still lounging about, taking up an otherwise perfectly useful infirmary bed. He looked fine to her. She had overheard one of the technician/metahuman medical experts say something about watching for cracks potentially reopening as the containment suit mended itself, and if that was the case, then she very much would have preferred him staying in a different room then her Q. Perhaps on the other side of the Watchtower. Or out the airlock. Or maybe burning up in the atmosphere. She had let people know her opinion on the matter, and the alternative options that were available. Loudly. And persistently. (Helena Bertinelli was (incredibly) persistent. 'Stubborn' would be the more apt word, but stubborn didn't start with a 'p'.) She had gone mostly ignored.

"When we- When me and Superman tracked Q's comlink to that dump, I'd never been so cold in my life. He was dead. I just knew- he was dead." Her voice was calm, her stare unblinking. Her thumb continued to rub soothing circles, feeling bone and veins just beneath thin skin. She focused in on that reality, only truly half-seeing the reclining silvery blue form across the small room. "Have you ever felt something like that, Cap?"

Captain Atom shifted against his propped up pillow. "No, ma'am."

"When we got to Cadmus. When we got to Q. And I saw that little _weasel _of a man and what he was doing to... I had never been so angry in my life. It _burned_. And I wanted to kill him. So badly. Have you ever felt something like that, Cap?"

"...Yes, ma'am."

Helena cocked an eyebrow, looking awkward and undignified with her head laying on its side. "Then you just might be able to understand. It's us against them, Cap. Me and mine. You tried to keep me away from mine. And for _that_... _That_, I'll never forgive you."

"I know, ma'am."

Helena sighed, hiding her face back into the crook of her arm and behind a curtain of long hair. "You keep doing that."

"Doing what, ma'am?"

"Agreeing with everything I say. And never once saying you're sorry."

"I know, ma'am."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not sure that I am."

"God!" The word exploded against the cotton sheets, breathy and tired. "You really need to work on your humanity. You're still human under that suit of yours, aren't you, Cap?"

"...I surely hope so, ma'am."

Helena laughed. It wasn't nice, but it was real. "Damn."

"Yes, ma'am."


End file.
